


Winter's Faded Flowers

by Porphyrios



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Caretaking, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Erebor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios/pseuds/Porphyrios
Summary: Bilbo is dragooned by Oin into acting as Thorin's nurse after the battle leaves him badly hurt.  Hobbits know nothing of dwarven medicine, but it's especially awkward because it forces him to examine feelings he thought he'd never have to face.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 37
Kudos: 302





	Winter's Faded Flowers

Ragged banners stirred lazily in the chill breeze. Heavy grey clouds scudded overhead as Bilbo picked his way through the camp, dodging frozen puddles and ruts carved in the icy mud by cart wheels and passing animals. In the distance, the shouts of dwarves and the angry calls of war rams being herded none-too-gently from place to place could be heard and the feeble, intermittent winter sun shone down on a squalid scene. Tents were scattered here and there, muddy fabric walls twitching a bit in the icy gusts. The ground had been churned into a morass of sticky, greyish mud (along with a liberal dose of animal manure) before the previous night's freeze had locked it into the current configuration of ruts and swells. The stench and ash of the burning orc-pyre was everywhere, the reek of scorched meat and the greasy black ash fouling everything it touched. Teams of gatherers brought cartloads of more dead orcs to the pyre, dumping them onto it and dousing them with oil before returning to the battlefield. In the distance, thin smoke drifted out of the upper reaches of the main gates, shattered long ago by the dragon, then walled and shattered again by King Thorin's last great charge. On the hillside next to the gate, elvish pavilions glowed in the feeble light, pennants twitching fitfully in the icy, fickle wind. The bridge over the gate-stream lay in ruins, rubble providing a patch of rapids directly in front of the gates that threw water onto people attempting the narrow single-file path that wended along the wall nearby. A team of dwarven engineers stood cursing down at it as they attempted to use a block and tackle to lever the rubble out of the rushing water, presumably to work on the bridge. The hobbit squinted at them, but in the uncertain morning light he couldn't tell what they were doing. Tamping down his innate curiosity, he forced himself back to his current errand. Bilbo took a deep breath of smoky air, clapped at the tent door and ducked inside.

Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain, Lord of Erebor, Holder of the Throne of Durin and undisputed Leader of the Longbeard clan, lay in a bloody heap of bandages on one makeshift wooden cot, his nephews nearby on two others. Only the ragged gasps of his breathing indicated that he wasn't dead, that and the slow crimson seep of blood into the bandages that covered his exposed skin. Fili and Kili were healthier looking, but likewise unconscious. Thorin's short ebon beard was bunched into tufts that protruded along with hanks of greasy black hair from the bandage wound around his head, and Bilbo thought he looked like he might not last until the night... a look, the hobbit reflected in amazement, that the king had exhibited since his body was brought from battle the day before, and yet here he was, no worse, although (if Oin was to be believed) no better. The inside of the tent stank in a different way than the camp; this was the smell of infection, of unwashed bodies and burning herbs. As Bilbo came in, Oin finished tracing a complicated diagram in wax pencil on Kili's bare chest and touched a red-hot knife blade to tiny piles of powdered herbs at each of the junctions of the diagrams, reading some type of portents in the astringent smoke that arose. The old dwarf grunted and nodded, rising stiffly to greet him.

"Master Baggins," he said gruffly, "kind of ye to come." A guilty glance at Thorin provided more explanation than Bilbo wanted for the reticence, memories of Thorin's fury on the battlements clear in his expression. "I don't want ye to think he..." Bilbo interrupted.

"Please, it's fine, Oin, there's no need to get into all that again. Really." Bilbo thought if he had to sit through one more awkward conversation about the scene on the walls and what one of the Company thought Thorin 'really' meant, he would die before any of the war wounded. Wounded, there was a topic. "I was passing by and wanted to take word back to the others about... how things were looking. So what have you determined about the princes and..." he trailed off awkwardly, almost afraid to mention the king's name. He hated looking at the ragged figure on the cot near him; it seemed impossible that it could be the same overwhelmingly active, vital, larger-than-life dwarf that Bilbo had followed through such dangers (and somewhere along the way lost his heart to, to his everlasting shame, not that the king would ever be interested in a hobbit). He had seen Thorin fight goblins, four and five at a time, and do it with such elegance he looked more like he was dancing than killing; he had seen Thorin haul a heavy pack for ten hours and end the day moving with the same leonine grace his stride had shown in the first minutes. How could this bundle of bloody rags be... Bilbo realized that Oin was speaking and shamefacedly asked him to repeat himself.

"As I was saying," Oin said mock-gruffly, though with a humorous flick of his bushy brows, "the lads should be fine. Energy lines are clear, just the flesh a bit bunged up. I was worried for Fili's tubes, he took a terrible hit from that sword through him, but the omens are good, so time'll see him right barring some catastrophe, though I keep checking. Kili's leg looked to the eye like he might lose it but the lines were clear to the toes, and vervain never lies when the smoke goes up like that..." Oin wandered off into technical explanations of what he had been doing, but Bilbo couldn't even hope to follow it. Dwarven medicine seemed more like magic to him than most of what he'd seen Gandalf do; he understood that fire went over here and it burned that thing and then something happened, but all this talk of energy lines and crystals and herbs and such made his head swim. It was a far sight from the hot poultices, teas and toddies of the Shire, that was for sure! One skill he couldn't doubt, though, was Oin's skill in surgery; the dwarf was a master with a needle. The boys had looked like raw mince pie filling when they were brought in, and Thorin... fighting back tears, he truncated that thought brutally to simply 'Thorin looked worse'. Looking over at the king, the old doctor sighed gustily. "His majesty here... it's hard to say. I daresay you or I would have died before we made it to the tent; even Dwalin probably wouldn't have made it this far, and Mahal carved that bugger from diorite instead of granite. I think the main thing Thorin has going for him at this point is the legendary stubbornness of the blood of Durin." A humorless chuckle was produced as the old dwarf arranged a few small clear stones around Thorin's bandaged chest and put a miniscule pile of powdered herbs atop where his heart would be under the wrappings, then burned it. The smoke went up vertically in a coiling trail and Oin's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He stared at the smoke, looked around as though confused, then glanced up at Bilbo with a puzzled expression. "Master Baggins, if you will, come here a moment," the old dwarf said and practically dragged Bilbo over next to the king. "Your hand, if you please, just hold it there," he pressed Bilbo's palm against Thorin's side and the hobbit felt the roughness of the bandages under his fingers over the solidity of dwarven ribs. The cloth strips had been soaked in some mixture that made them slightly tacky to the touch, but when the old doctor's next pile of herbs were burned, the smoke was thicker even to Bilbo's untrained eyes, going straight up in a rolling column almost to the ceiling before dispersing.

"What..." Bilbo said, coughing briefly from the sharp smell. "What does that mean?"

"Well," Oin said with a broad grin, "it means I found a job for ye, Master Baggins. You're to be Thorin's nurse for a bit, because it seems something about you strengthens his chances for survival from 'not sure how ye're still here, lad' to 'it's possible ye'll be up and around one day', and that's the best news I've had in ages." The old dwarf turned around to shuffle in the bits of magico-medical detritus on the table nearby. With a satisfied grunt, he pulled out a stick of soft red wax used for marking and started drawing runes on Thorin's palms and brow. " _Ukh_ for strength, _Arn_ for blood... _Pash_ for luck, because we'll bloody need it..." Bilbo was tempted to shout but was afraid to interrupt the doctor as he was clearly doing something, so he clenched his jaw and spoke quietly.

"What do you mean, nurse? And why here? I hardly think I'm who he wants to see as he wakes up, if he wakes up! Oin, I don't think..." he stepped forward but a gnarled old hand waved him off, and Bilbo gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. "But I don't even know what to do!" He cried out despairingly. At that moment, the flap was opened and Balin ducked in, woolly white hair and beard windblown but smiling in pleased surprise to see Bilbo.

"Master Baggins, how grand to see you here! Oin, what word of the princes and our badly-abused king?" Balin looked down, eyes sad, and shook his head slowly.

"Funny you should ask," Oin said, straightening up from his drawing with a back-cracking stretch, "before I'd have said Thorin was headed in the wrong direction, but it seems Master Baggins here is good for him somehow. He's agreed to be his nurse for the..." Bilbo interrupted, spluttering.

"I've agreed to no such thing!" He snapped as he drew himself up, ignoring Balin's shocked look in order to stare challengingly at Oin. "You simply told me you wanted me to do it, and I have no intention of taking such a job! Frankly, even if I did I wouldn't know where to begin." Oin's bushy grey brows drew down in concern and he opened his mouth to speak, but Balin held up his hand and turned worried dark eyes to the hobbit.

"Master Baggins... Bilbo... tell me, do you think Oin a good doctor?" Bilbo stared, completely taken aback by this line of questioning, but finally he gave a reluctant nod. Balin smiled in relief. "As do I. I've seen this dwarf heal people of things I couldn't imagine recovering from, and do so faster than I'd have thought possible. If he says you're what Thorin needs, I'd take him at his word." His face fell as he looked down at the bandage-swathed figure on the bed, then at his feet. "Of course, I'm assuming that you want to help; it's certainly not any of our places to try to force you to do anything more. You've already sacrificed so much for us, after all, and you haven't always had your efforts appreciated." A wry glance at the wounded king said volumes.

"I..." Bilbo felt completely wrong-footed. Part of him cried out against the obvious blackmail, but the idea that he could help Thorin and might refuse was intolerable as well. Balin was carefully not looking at him, pretending to be caught up in examining the young princes in the flickering lamplight, but Oin was shooting him the anguished look one would only expect of the physician to such an important person. The hobbit sighed. Blast, bebother and confusticate these dwarves, he thought exhaustedly, they'll be the death of me yet. There was nowhere in the Eastern Lands he would less rather be than this tent, yet he knew already how this was going to end. "Well, of course, I mean... if you truly think I could help Thorin..." Balin beamed at him and Oin looked ready to collapse in relief.

Oin snorted. "All I know, lad, is that I cast before and the smoke said he might die afore nightfall. I cast again with you here touchin' him and it said he'd recover full health. Couldn't have been more clear, and a dozen doctors'd tell you the same. How it works I can't rightly say. Somehow you make him want to come back, it seems. As to not knowin' what to do..." Oin shrugged. "Sponge him off and clean him up. Keep him company. Talk to him, even though he don't seem to be listening at the moment, you don't know what they hear when they're like this. Once he wakes," Bilbo heard the optimism pulsing in this statement, "feed him, help him as he needs, how he needs. There's no fixed duties, really." The mask of calm broke for a moment as the doctor's gnarled old hands bunched unconsciously into fists. "Just... give us back our king." Bilbo wanted to scream but settled for sighing deeply.

"I suppose you'd better show me what to do," he said in resignation. Balin clapped him on the shoulder and left, and Oin began teaching him the process of tending the bandaged wounds.

At first learning the new process made time speed past, but after hours had gone by Bilbo was quickly at loose ends. He had tended to the wounds and then to Thorin generally, cleaning the dried blood and filth of battle off his skin with a soft moistened cloth, until the king looked... not well, by a long shot, but better at least, more like a patient and less like a half-wrapped corpse fresh from the battlefield. Bilbo was shocked to realize that Thorin's foot had been impaled during the battle, so not only were his head and chest bandaged, there was a great bundle of treated cloth wrapped around his foot as well. Oin puttered about with his crystals and herbs, devoting the majority of his time to the princes but he made it clear even then that until one or more of the patients awoke, there was little to be done. Finally (to preserve the shreds of his own sanity as much as for any therapeutic benefit) he began to speak to Thorin quietly. He spoke of his home, of the rooms of Bag End and the furniture in each, some made by his father for his mother, some bought here and there at various times. He spoke of the pictures of his parents over the mantel, and his memories of them... walking to market with his mother, digging in the garden with his father, playing with Hamfast Gamgee the gardener's son and the games that they found to amuse each other and themselves. Most of all, he spoke of the Shire. He described the woods and the hills, the streams and the fertile land, the smell of the turned earth, the hum of the cicadas and the long, lazy summer afternoons where a young hobbit's thoughts turned back in on themselves and everything seemed to be cast in a golden dream of sun and warmth and pleasant hours spent doing nothing but drowsing against a tree or sprawling in a field of flowering grass. He was shocked to look down and see warm blue eyes peering up into his, cloudy with pain but aware nonetheless.

"Sounds... beautiful..." Thorin choked out, as Bilbo almost leaped up in shock. Oin bustled over with a cup of herbs steeped in water, smiling so broadly the hobbit thought the old doctor's head might split in half. Bilbo tried to prop Thorin up on a pillow with middling success.

"Drink this," Oin says, thrusting the cup under Thorin's nose and almost pouring it into his nostrils. Bilbo, watching the poor dwarf's eyes cross as he tried to focus on the cup, snatched it away from Oin and held it up properly for Thorin to sip, trying to resist his urge to shake his head at what he couldn't help but think of as typical dwarvish antics. The king pulled a face at the bitterness of the liquid but drank it greedily, clearly parched from his time spent unconscious, and Oin immediately refilled it with clear water. "Now sip on this," he said. "Herbs might make ye a bit woozy, but ye need to drink, much as ye can."

Thorin sipped a bit, but after his first words, he refused to look at Bilbo, focusing on the cup, the ceiling, anything other than look directly at the hobbit. Finally, though, he glanced at the hobbit (looking guilty as a dog who stole the roast, the hobbit thought sourly) and said "I owe... you didn't..." His voice was failing and hoarse, bearing no resemblance to his usual deep, rich baritone, but even so, the hobbit suspected from his uncomfortable expression that he would have been just as incoherent if he had been in perfect health.

"Thorin," he said softly, "it's alright. Really. We both did things that weren't... our best. I forgive you, let's just put it behind us." Thorin shook his head stubbornly, hair scraping softly against the pillow.

"No..." he coughed and pain made him spasm, and Bilbo gave him another sip of water. "Not alright... shameful... was mad... almost lost... lost everything... lost you... too much," The hobbit felt a flush creep across his cheeks, but Thorin was clutching at his arm almost painfully, willing him to understand. "You deserve better... forgive you... forgive..." He fell, exhausted, eyes fighting to stay open but finally losing their battle and closing as Bilbo slumped next to him, his thick fingers still wrapped lightly around the hobbit's slender wrist. And if his skin tingled where strong, callused fingers lay gently on it, it was nobody else's business. Surely Thorin hadn't meant anything untoward.

=

The next day Bilbo was surprised to see a new tent set up next door and Thorin alone in the shadowy space; the princes had started thrashing in the middle of the night, and apparently had caused such havoc that a groggy Thorin tried to get out of bed to assure himself they were alright and almost ripped out his stitches and eviscerated himself. To keep him calm, Oin made the decision to have them moved to a different tent. For that day and several thereafter, Bilbo spent a fair amount of time wondering exactly what was meant by 'almost lost everything'. Thorin never mentioned it again; Bilbo would have sworn that it hadn't happened, except that he kept catching blue eyes following him when the king thought he wasn't looking. When he wasn't sitting with Thorin, helping him eat or tending his bandages, he visited with Fili and Kili next door as well as with other members of the company in the squalid camp outside. Balin was a constant visitor, often standing and watching Thorin sleep with a wistful look that drove home to Bilbo just how much the old adviser felt that Thorin was his son or ward in some half-formed way. When it was quiet and Oin was out, Thorin would doze and Bilbo would speak again as he had that first day, telling tales of the Shire and of his tangled, impossible social connections with the other hobbits - of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her unslakable, dragonish lust for his silver spoons, of Camellia Proudfoot's brash nosiness about his bachelorhood, of Hugo Boffin's pushy rudeness masquerading as straightforward bluntness, endless tales of the sort of social faux-pas and awkward moments that made for unforgettable events in hobbit circles. If the king was awake, he would sometimes chuckle softly, but rarely did he ask a question or interrupt, preferring instead to watch Bilbo with a gentle expression that seemed out of place on that proud, stern face. The only awkward moment came when Balin asked about what to do with the Arkenstone, now that it was returned from Bard. Thorin gritted his teeth and seemed to be refusing to look at Bilbo, but he told Balin in bitten-off words to bury it in the deepest vaults, and never mention it to him again. Bilbo hoped his shock wasn't evident on his face, but he could have hugged the king; clearly his ordeal had taught him something.

After two days, Thorin's condition had improved quite a bit, though Oin still looked concerned when he thought nobody was watching. He spent the day examining the king closely, replacing the bandages and tracing runes to encourage healing and repair. Later that night, as Bilbo was preparing to leave, Oin came hurrying back in. His normal bustle had been replaced with a strong sense of urgency, and even before he spoke, Bilbo had tensed at the thought of some new threat. The old dwarf looked at Bilbo as he spoke, carefully not watching Thorin's face as he said "A storm is coming, and gie swift at that. It's late in the year for first snow, and this promises to be both hard and deep, what we used to call a wolf-killing snow. We must get inside the mountain." Thorin's grunt was clearly audible, but Oin didn't look around at first. Finally he turned, bracing himself visibly as he did so. "Thorin, you will be carried on a litter; the bridge is strong enough for that, though the engineers say the mortar should set for a few more days before we try bringing anything but hand carts across. We've no time for a few more days, though; we must go now."

"I'll walk." Thorin said boldly, though Bilbo thought if the dwarf could get out of bed it would be a miracle greater than Bard's lucky shot. The king struggled to sit up, face going pale with the effort, and Bilbo winced at the sight.

"Don't be a fool, ye daft bugger," Oin said furiously, "ye can't even stand. Not three days past ye were nigh to death, ye'll be carried if I must tie ye down meself." Oin flapped a hand dismissively, ignoring Thorin's glower. "Now, Dwalin and Dori will be along, and we'll have trouble enow gettin' you on the stretcher. Bilbo will go wi' ye." He cast a glance full of appeal at the hobbit, who nodded.

"Indeed," he agreed, wondering why he bothered. It was obvious to anyone who knew Thorin that he wasn't listening. "Wouldn't dream of being anywhere else. I'll... I just need to go get my things from my tent, and I'll be back directly." He edged towards the door as Oin and Thorin squared off, Thorin's jaw jutting angrily from where he lay on the cot and Oin clearly about to start bellowing. If he could just... Balin slammed into him from behind as he felt for the tent flap. Bilbo pulled back his groping hand and sighed softly, hoping he could dodge the explosion he sensed was coming.

"Balin!" Oin called out in patently false happiness. "Just the dwarf we need! Tell our fearless king here he's bein' a right ass arguin' about bein' carried!" With that, Bilbo ducked around the white-haired adviser and fled. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to be present for... at all. The sounds of angry shouting followed him out into the grey evening gloom. 

As he stepped outside he shivered as the wind whipped around his bare shins and feet despite the thick hair that covered them. The air smelled wet and fresh, the unmistakeable smell of snow on the wind, and the fading light showed heavy, thick, steel-colored clouds that hung so low they looked like they were resting atop the tent poles themselves. Wisps of pungent smoke blew past from campfires and braziers, but the camp was crawling with activity despite the hour. Something seemed different just in the short walk, and suddenly he realized that there were no elves in sight. The tents they had set up on the hill were suddenly absent, as though they had never been there; no tall figures walked among the tents or stood on the hill, watching the dwarven camp as if amused at the scurrying figures below. The elves were gone. Usually this time of day was when the dwarves (and others) would be beginning to wind down for the evening, eat a meal and rest for the next day of hard labor, but tonight it resembled a stirred anthill and Bilbo realized that word of the coming storm had driven everyone into action. After a short walk he ducked into the tent that he had been sharing with Bofur and Bifur, but nobody else was present. Throwing his things back into the pack he had carried so long, he stepped back outside and immediately dodged a handcart full of jumbled items rumbling along on the rutted road while ignoring the cursing of the Iron Hills dwarf pulling it. The dwarves across the way were pulling down their tent as he emerged, items stacked up outside. He didn't know their names, but waved cheerfully nonetheless.

"Master Baggins, good evenin'!" The short one with the longer beard called cheerily. "Tell us, has the king moved yet?" When he shook his head, they both grumbled. "Oh, that's bad, that's bad. Snow's almost upon us." They looked at each other and Bilbo knew dwarves well enough to know that if he left this unaddressed, the whole camp would be upset within an hour that the king had been 'abandoned' or something equally ridiculous. Really, he thought, sometimes it's worse here than the Shire!

"Don't worry, gentlemen," Bilbo said quickly, "I'm on my way right now to accompany him into the mountain." Assuring them that he would send for them in a moment if they were needed, he fled once more, feeling as though he were back in the war dodging orcs. Even in the short amount of time he had been gone, the darkness had deepened and the only clearly visible thing in sight was a line of torches marking the path to the gates, their light throwing back the encroaching gloom. He ducked under the tentflap after listening for a moment, but the argument seemed to have passed, leaving an awkward silence that was full of fury (on the part of Thorin) and sheepish resistance (practically everyone else). Oin was fussing Thorin about onto a stretcher which was being eyed by Dori and Dwalin; the hobbit noticed that all of the magico-medical flotsam that had been scattered around the tent was gone, presumably packed away in one of the bags littering the back of the tent. Soon the two burly dwarves lifted Thorin and headed out, Oin fussing as they went. Bilbo walked beside them, but after his second attempt to start a conversation with Thorin had been met with a cold, fishy stare, he sighed and watched the camp being broken down around them instead. Tents were being dropped left and right, carts rolled here and there full of supplies and scavenged items, and dwarves were everywhere, calling out to each other in Westron and occasionally Khuzdul. He was shocked to see a set of wagons go by drawn by rams, all piled high with salvaged orc armor; he wondered what on earth they were planning on doing with such trash, but there was no time to ask as they were drawing near the bridge.

The bridge over the river at the main gates was a tremendous reminder of just how quickly motivated dwarves could work stone. An elegant, simple arch, each stone had been cut and fitted together with mortar, the edges being notched and short I-shaped lengths of iron inset between each stone to add tensile strength. Dwalin clucked his tongue and shook his head scornfully when he walked on it, but Bilbo thought it was an amazing feat of engineering, especially given the short amount of time it had taken. They passed quickly across the bridge (briefly delaying the rest of the traffic which was likewise frantic to get to shelter before the snows) and Oin directed them inside the gates, then up a wide but somewhat steep stair, down a short hall, and into a set of rooms with a blanket hung across the gaping main doorway in place of any more substantial portal. Two oil lamps burned inside, showing a small but tidy room that had obviously been cleaned recently, with the floor still showing traces of the dust which had been hastily swept out. A proper bed was set up for Thorin; even as they were running about, Bilbo wondered where they had found bed linens in the comprehensive wreckage of the retaken Erebor. Three other doors led into smaller chambers in the back, each with their own ragged blanket. The king was lowered gently onto the mattress and eased with great care off the stretcher, hissing in pain as his wounds were moved. It was obvious to everyone that he was both relieved to be still again and utterly exhausted from the trip. The hands which so frequently captivated Bilbo were limp now, splayed on the coverlet of the bed which was newly tucked in around the bandages across his chest.

"Where are we?" Thorin rasped, making every effort to pretend that he wasn't about to fall asleep at any moment.

"It's the old west barracks at the front gate, Thorin," Oin said with what was likely intended to be a comforting smile, "Master Baggins and I will be nearby, as will Fili and Kili." No sooner had he said the names than the blanket was swept aside by Gloin, who escorted the bearers for two more stretchers in, Fili lying still but Kili laughing and talking as he moved.

"I think once I get better, I'll get you to carry me like this all the time," the dark-haired prince was saying, to the accompanying eye rolls of his brother and his bearers, "and Fili too, except you can run, and we can call out encouragement! Then we can have races, and the winner can get a bag of gold, or..." he broke off mid-idea. "Uncle! You look so much better already! We'll be right here, so we can keep you company if you..." Oin shushed him as Thorin's expression wavered between pleasure at seeing them awake and clearly recovering and alarm at the prospect of them being too close.

"My king," Fili said softly, but the look on his face was practically glowing. "Welcome home." Thorin scoffed, but Bilbo saw the tears start up in Thorin's blue eyes.

"A broken king of a broken mountain," he said, seeming to joke but the bitterness in his voice belied the false humor. "Hardly a proud figure." Seeing the expressions of the others in the room, he tried halfheartedly to smile. "But we have survived, and we shall heal. Soon..." Shouting in the distance came muffled through the blanket over the door, then a distant howl was heard. At first Bilbo thought it was a wolf but it droned on and on, rising and falling but never ceasing. Thorin's face was ashen and drawn in the lamplight, looking more skull-like than Bilbo had ever seen it. "The storm is come." Fili and Kili's smiling faces fell and they were carried into their room without another word. Bilbo thought about all the dwarves outside and suddenly remembered all the men of Laketown, now practically homeless thanks to Smaug's final rampage and he gasped aloud. He stood, wanting to run out and do something, anything, but Thorin's hand reached out and clasped his firmly. 

"The men of Dale... Thorin!" the hobbit gasped. "The women, children...! They're out there in..."

"They were told to come inside. Balin put them in the lower trade halls of the first deep." When he looked down, the king was half-smiling, though he still looked grey and worn. "I would not leave an elf outside in this, Master Baggins. I remember the wolf-killers from my childhood. By next year, Dale will be rebuilt, but they will stay with us for the winter." Bilbo fought to keep calm as the surge of panic was still raging in him, though he heard the words being spoken.

"You... right. Yes. I forgot somehow, you remember living here before the dragon came." He took a deep breath and focused on the warmth of the hand on his, realizing at that moment that Thorin was holding his hand. He flushed and the king dropped his hand suddenly, both of them having clearly decided to pretend that the previous moment had not happened. "Uh..." Bilbo began, then frantically tried to think of something to say to fill the sudden uncomfortable silence. "What was it like here? When you were a child?" Thorin's face changed, a wry look creeping over it.

"Clean," he snorted, looking around in disgust. "Beautiful. It was... I knew no different, then; I had no idea what a treasure I had, or that it could ever be lost. The mountain was huge, and I was small, but I went everywhere. There were great lamps that shone day and night; the halls were full of music and lovely things; the great forges heated the stone and kept it warm and pleasant. As a young prince, I had my fill of finery and luxury... every item my family used, be it never so common, was a work of art, the best our craftsmen could offer. When the dragon came and we fled, it was strangest to deal with the loss of all that beauty." Thorin's face grew pensive and he looked off into the distance, azure eyes clearly gazing into a past Bilbo couldn't see. "When we fled, we were left with almost nothing. You wonder why I hate Thranduil so much. He stood on the hills where he was camped this week. He and his army watched us flee the ruin of the mountain and did nothing. He saw us wandering, fearful, cold and hungry, in need, and he gave no succor, offered no help. Our noble 'ally' closed his doors to us when we needed him most. We wandered the hills of Dunland, and many died - some to attacks, and many simply to cold and hunger. It was a dark time. Orcs of the mountains harried us, wargs hunted us... the wizard Saruman grudgingly fed us when we passed near Isengard, but even he made it clear he had little regard for my kin. We were beneath his notice. We passed through your Shire to the Blue Mountains, and there we found the ruins of Gabilgathol, such as they were. We scraped by, but there was little beauty in the ruins, and little beauty in the makework we were forced to do for men." The king's lips were pressed into a thin line, brows drawn down, and the hobbit fought the urge to offer comfort. If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that Thorin was least receptive to comforting when he looked the most in need of it. The king continued "But it seems the ruin of Gabilgathol has followed me home. Here I lie in a raddled bed, a cripple in a shattered mountain, in a room without even a door, unable to walk, unable to..." he broke off and closed his eyes, fighting for calm and breathing heavily. His face was a mask of exhaustion.

"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo said softly in spite of himself. "You will recover. I promise." Only after it came out of his mouth did it occur to Bilbo just how utterly, cosmically stupid it was to promise such a thing. Feeling a complete tit, he nevertheless carried on speaking. "Go to sleep now. You're exhausted, and tomorrow will be here soon enough. It will look better in the morning, you'll see." His hand reached out of its own accord and smoothed stray hair away from Thorin's face, causing the king to draw in his breath harshly and look away, a pink flush striping each pallid cheek. It occurred to Bilbo to wonder if perhaps his one-sided attraction to the king was so one-sided after all.

= 

It didn't look better in the morning, nor for days thereafter. The snowstorm lasted for four days, the whining howl of the wind against the stone parapets haunting the entire area of the gates to the point that Bilbo feared he would go mad from it. By the time it finally ended, snow was mounded so high that the gates could not open outwards, and expeditions to where the camp had been were forced to clamber down from the battlements on ropes. Everything left behind was under feet of snow, and while nothing would be lost (even the food left behind was generally considered safe, due to the cold), that didn't make it any easier for those who had to go without items that had gotten left behind in the last-minute dash into the safety of the mountain ahead of the terrible storm. As he went to and from the area where Bombur and a cook named Idli had set up the mess hall, the hobbit saw dwarves coming back from an expedition outside so covered with snow that they looked like walking snowbanks, with icy crystals encrusting their eyebrows, braids and beards. He couldn't even imagine being willing to go out in such un-hobbitish weather, and realized all over again just how sheltered the climate of the Shire was compared to the rest of the world.

Even more disturbing, Thorin's impaled foot developed an infection during the night after Bilbo's ill-timed promise; the high fever left him alternately delirious and raving about gold and dragons or so deeply asleep that he couldn't be roused, giving everyone a lingering fear of coma or worse that nobody wanted to contemplate too closely. Oin would read the smoke, shake his head, eye Bilbo, and continue working, but the hobbit noticed that he avoided any questions as to what he saw in the prognosis. As if that weren't enough, by the time the snow had stopped the princes had recovered enough to become phenomenally annoying. They complained loudly and long of their boredom to anyone nearby, so much so that Bilbo and Oin were both ready to throttle them. Bilbo couldn't even walk within sight of their door without calls for him to come tell them stories, carry tales of what was happening in the rest of the mountain, or (worst of all) adjudicate some petty dispute between the brothers that had arisen only from the stifling boredom of being stuck in a sickroom. The hobbit began to spend more time out of the healer's suite, though he still spent hours a day sitting and tending to Thorin's wounds at Oin's insistence; the constant squabbling and sniping of Fili and Kili was bad enough, but seeing Thorin in that state was almost more than he could bear. By the time Thorin recovered enough that the fever had broken, they were all about to go mad (though Oin had bundled Fili and Kili off to another room after clearing them for light activity), and Bilbo had changed enough disgusting bandages to feel like a veteran of his own private war. The snow was still piled deep against the gates, and now strong winds were blowing down from the Grey Mountains in the north, pushing the snow into strange, serpentine patterns and piling it against anything that offered any resistance to the flow.

One silver lining in the dark cloud of Thorin's long battle with infection was that his other wounds had healed quite a bit while he lay abed. Oin worried about the king's foot, but he declared that Thorin should be up as soon as possible to keep his muscles from withering from the forced inaction; Bilbo worried privately about pneumonia, with the dwarf laying about like that. Oin insisted that dwarves weren't prone to diseases, though, so Bilbo had to take him at his word. Sooner than he thought possible, Thorin was presented with a wooden crutch and Bilbo was instructed to help him learn to move about again. Of course, Thorin was less than pleased with all of it.

"Limping about on a stick," he grumbled furiously, glaring at Bilbo, "what's this supposed to accomplish? So I'm to be a cripple now? What an impressive figure of a king I must make! Perhaps I should make my way to the high throne and fling myself over the edge. Let Fili take the throne." Bilbo took in the sight of the king sweating, face greyish and drawn as he balanced on the crutch. His patience for Thorin's constant self-pity was wearing rather thin these days, but he also knew exhaustion when he saw it. He had become quite familiar with Thorin's pets and moods during his time as nurse, but that didn't make them any more endearing (or less exhausting, he thought sullenly).

"You can't even make it to the end of the hall and back without falling over, Thorin," Bilbo said in a light voice that was belied by his careful look, gauging Thorin's reaction, "but now you're going to the high throne? Seems a bit ambitious, if you ask me." Thorin cursed and swayed on his crutch, and Bilbo reached out to steady him. The king, furious now, twisted away from the helping hand and almost fell. Bilbo stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the dwarf, wondering yet again at the furnace-like heat that dwarven bodies seemed to produce. He glanced up at blue eyes now barely inches from his own, and Thorin's fury seemed to have given way to some other emotion. The king's usually shining blue eyes were suddenly dark and intense. _Oh_. The moment stretched. Thorin finally shifted slightly, and Bilbo leaped back as though he were scalded. Both of them had flushed faces and carefully avoided eye contact; Thorin's breathing was suddenly more labored. "Perhaps you should rest," Bilbo muttered, and Thorin mumbled a response which was barely discernable. They made their way back to the room, and the king napped fitfully as Bilbo thought about their little tete-a-tete in the hall. Surely Thorin wasn't... interested like that. Was he? His thoughts chased themselves around and around in his mind.

Later that afternoon after Thorin woke, they made another trip down the hall and reached the top of the stairs looking down at the gate. A path had been cleared through the snow across the bridge, and dirty snow was tracked all over; Bilbo was glad they weren't going down there into the muck. One of the carts full of goblin armor was being hauled in, rams bawling in complaint at being driven into what they clearly thought was a cave. Bilbo remembered the carts being brought in before the storm and asked "Why have they gathered up all that armor? Surely nobody wants to wear it." Thorin snorted contemptuously at the notion, but glanced over at the hobbit.

"Nobody would wear that, it's _prukh_... I mean, garbage! No, it's salvaged for the iron in it. Even goblins can't ruin the iron from the Misty Mountains. We can smelt it down into ingots and use it while we are trying to get our own iron mines operational again. Rebuilding the mountain will take a mighty amount of iron, Master Baggins, nails and fittings, bands and hinges. If the goblins were neighborly enough to bring it to us, it seems positively rude to ignore the gift." Bilbo was amazed to see the first legitimate smile on Thorin's face he had seen in what seemed far too long, and he spoke before he even thought.

"Bilbo." At the king's surprised and inquiring look, the hobbit continued. "Call me Bilbo. We've been through too much together to be so formal, Thorin." His voice seemed to have gone low and a bit husky without his permission. The hobbit smiled what was supposed to be a friendly smile, but the look Thorin gave him in return was beyond warm. Brilliant blue eyes gazed out from beneath half-lowered lids, and a rush of warmth made the icy wind suddenly unnoticeable.

"You honor me," he said in a quiet rumble that went through Bilbo like a rush of fire, scorching his nerves. "Bilbo." The sound of his name half-whispered in that deep voice left the hobbit breathless. The sound of Kili's voice was like an ice water bath as he came down the hall behind them.

"Uncle! Bilbo! You're out walking!" Kili came bounding down the hall at such speed it was almost a controlled fall forward, sweat beading his brow and matting his dark hair. The prince was wielding an identical crutch to Thorin's, but Bilbo noticed with a quick side glance that where Thorin looked at his own crutch with disdain, he seemed to have an almost morbid horror of seeing Kili on one. The prince was cheerfully oblivious, hopping along on his good leg and smiling broadly. "I've been out here for a bit, went all the way back to the armory, have you been there? The armor left needs a good cleaning, but it might serve in a pinch. And the iron is all gone to rust, but the steel just needs a good cleaning! There's a corselet of steel rings that I think would fit Fili, and a helm shaped like a boar's head that has to have been made for someone personally! Do you know whose it was? I wondered..." Thorin and Bilbo glanced at each other and shared a moment of private relief that their... whatever that was... hadn't been noticed, and then subsumed themselves into the flood of happy chatter that Kili brought to everywhere he went.

When Kili finally paused to take a breath, Thorin said "I haven't been to the armory. Show me where it is?" At Kili's happy agreement, Thorin set off down the hallway with Bilbo by his side. The hobbit worried that this was far too long a trip for only their first day out on the crutch, but it was so grand to see Thorin excited about something that he didn't speak. Still, the king's face was grey and drawn by the time they finally rounded the last corner and passed through a carved doorway into a room full of arms and weaponry. Whole suits of armor lined the walls on wooden stands, some collapsed in the dust where the wood had given way either to rot or insects; swords, mattocks, axes and halberds were arranged in racks. Some of the pieces were indeed rusty, but others still shone under the thick coating of dust and grime that over a century of neglect had left on them. Thorin stood just inside the door, swaying on his crutch and breathing heavily but Bilbo noticed that in spite of his exhaustion the king was completely interested and engaged, something he hadn't seen since before the dragon died.

"Uncle!" Kili lurched over, gingerly carrying what Bilbo thought was the most horrifying helmet he had ever seen. Cast to resemble a snarling boar, enormous knife-edged tusks of steel jutted up like knives beside the face of the wearer, and a bristling pelt of thin spikes covered the broad top. "This is the helm!"

Thorin laughed in surprised delight and shuffled himself around to sit down on a nearby crate. Bilbo was terrified that it might collapse but thankfully it held. "That was the helm of Igli, captain of the gate. He was best friends with Dain, and they were of an age. Dain was obsessed with war boars even then, he was always in the pens, and Igli was like his right hand... if you saw one, you saw the other." His face was distant and fond, clearly watching the memories he was describing.

"Did he..." Kili was uncharacteristically solemn. "Did he die when the dragon came?"

"Igli? No." Thorin chuckled bitterly. "He didn't make it that long. He tried to ride the biggest battle boar we had one night when he was blind drunk because of a barracks-room bet, a giant beast called Big Shug. Fell off it, cracked his head on a rock, and died. Pigs ate half of him before they found him the next morning." The king shook his head, gazing down at his lap. "It was how he would have wanted to go." Bilbo was so horrified and disgusted he felt he might throw up. Indeed he might have if he hadn't suddenly noticed Thorin watching him surreptitiously from under lowered brows, casting glances from Bilbo to Kili (who also looked appalled and vaguely green around the lips). Suddenly the king burst out laughing. "Of course the dragon killed him, but you two should see your faces!" Bilbo and Kili scoffed and swatted at him almost at the same time. Thorin threw back his head and laughed, a clear and open sound that made Bilbo's heart crack open. He hadn't heard that laugh since... Yavanna's grace, how long had it been? Laketown, if then. Listening to that sound, there was no trace of the madness, the obsession, the fury, the battle, the fear, the hatred... all the terrible things of the time between that time relaxing on the lake and the present moment were gone as if they had never been, leaving the bold, handsome dwarf Bilbo knew from their travels. Thorin looked up and Bilbo felt his soul in his eyes as they met brilliant sapphire blue ones, gazing into the face of the dwarf that he knew he cared about more than might be considered proper. Thorin's smile fell away, leaving him looking intense and open in a way that made Bilbo's stomach clench pleasantly. Time stretched as they gazed at each other then the moment was rudely broken.

"Uncle? Did you want to..." his voice trailed off. Kili looked at Thorin and then Bilbo, back and forth. The dark-haired young prince's eyes widened a bit as he looked from the hobbit to the king and then he grinned widely. The hobbit felt the flush spread across his face, but Thorin's bark broke the silence and cut off whatever impertinence was about to emerge from Kili quite effectively.

"Make yourself useful and go find Balin," the king said brusquely. "This armory was a good discovery; we will clean up the weapons and armor here and they will serve us well. While I'm..." he motioned in disgust at his foot and crutch, "I can't get around, but I can do this at least. Have a chair brought, and some cleaning paste and sand along with a bucket of water and some oil." Kili's grin didn't fade but he snapped a sarcastic salute and whirled around like he was about to march off. The effect was ruined when he almost fell from his crutch tangling on his boot and he had to catch himself against a shelf.

Before Kili left, he turned at the door. "Are you sure it's safe to leave you and Master Boggins here alone? Anything might happen!" he asked, eyes glittering in cheerful malice. Thorin's outraged shouting chased the prince out as Bilbo hid his face in his hands, but the giggling that drifted back down the hall indicated how little attention he paid to his uncle's outrage.

"I'm sorry about him, Mas... Bilbo," Thorin grumbled. "Dis ruined him. If he weren't on that bloody crutch, I'd have Dwalin take him out and beat him senseless, but even that doesn't help for long I'm afraid." Thorin looked away uncomfortably. "But... there is something we should discuss."

"Of course Thorin, what is it?" Bilbo brushed off another crate and perched on the side of it.

Thorin showed a red stripe along each cheekbone, and stared determinedly at the floor. "There is... surely you've noticed that there seems to be some sort of inappropriate... attraction which has grown between us. It was never my intention to put you in such a compromising position." His voice had sunk to a low whisper, but Bilbo heard his words as clearly as if he had shouted them in his ear. He felt a sudden wrench, as though the floor had fallen out from under him. Of all the words he least wanted to hear in that context, 'inappropriate' was high on the list.

"I..." Bilbo's mouth was unaccountably dry. "Uh, I had... yes, I suppose so. I'm sorry you consider it inappropriate, but I can certainly see that... well, of course, I'm hardly a dwarf, and... I mean, clearly a king can't..." The hobbit knew that he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to make a complete sentence even form in his mind, let alone come out of his mouth. His eyes prickled suddenly, and he was fiercely, overwhelmingly terrified that he might begin to cry. Thorin looked as miserable as Bilbo felt. The hobbit made a feeble effort to stand and struggled for a moment against the crate. "I'm... terribly sorry, Thorin. It was never my intention to... well. I should go. I will send someone to help you back. I apologize if I..." Bilbo forced himself to stop speaking, but as he turned to go tears ran down his cheeks.

"Wait." Thorin fought his way up onto his crutch as Bilbo moved towards the door. "Bilbo, please, just hear...!" he called. Bilbo ignored him and fled the room, sobbing once he reached the safety of the hallway. He fled down the stairs, stopping only to tell Oin brusquely to go get Thorin. The elderly healer started to ask questions, but Bilbo ignored him and gathered his things wordlessly, leaving the room while Oin was mid-sentence. The hobbit knew that he should feel bad for being so appallingly rude, but despite his years of rigorous social conditioning, there was only so much he could take. Racing down the stairs at a dangerous pace, he crossed the open gate-hall blinded by tears and fled into the lower halls where the men of Laketown had made their camp.

=

This was the beginning of one of the worst periods of Bilbo's life. The trade halls were huge and empty, all the stalls and displays that survived the dragon's rampage long since destroyed for firewood. Statues lined the walls but the glowing lamps that had once provided light here were long since broken or dimmed, leaving the enormous space in shadow, lit only by torches or cooking fires. Bilbo took an empty spot in the back corner of the dark hall, his bedroll tucked almost invisibly behind a statue of some long-forgotten dwarven noble. He didn't know if anyone was looking for him, but he was overwhelmingly certain that he didn't want to see anyone. Over the next few days, he ate a few mouthfuls when he had to, but his appetite seemed to have vanished. Everything tasted like ashes anyway. There were occasionally moments when he almost felt normal, watching the human children play some constantly shifting game that involved lots of shouting and running, then he would see Thorin's uncomfortable face in his mind, the knife would twist in his gut again and he would breathe gingerly, trying not to vomit what food he had managed to choke down. During one of his trips out for food, he asked after Gandalf, hoping that the wizard could take him quickly away from the mountain, but in typical wizardly fashion he had left a week or so before and nobody knew where he was going or when he might be back. There being no way for Bilbo to make the long and dangerous journey alone (not that he didn't consider it), he was trapped.

He spent hours each day sitting at the feet of the statue in the gloom, staring off into the darkness. He didn't know what he had expected, he thought bitterly. Bilbo had never been one of those hobbits who were free with their affections. In fact, he had never been that affectionate at all. After a few tumbles with boys and girls his own age to see what all the fuss was about, he hadn't spent much time thinking about such things as relationships and certainly not of marriage or long-term partnership. His experiments with sexual matters weren't terribly extensive, but they were enough to tell him that he really didn't understand all the bother. The sensations were pleasant enough, he supposed, but the whole process seemed very, well, unsanitary, and he never felt even the slightest emotional connection to the other hobbits he met (or, increasingly, was introduced to, once others realized he wasn't likely to settle down on his own). Friends he had a-plenty, but as for partners... well, his books and studies were enough. And that had been true... until a meddling wizard had dragged twelve dwarves to his door, and in the process, upset Bilbo's mental equilibrium entirely.

He had resisted his attraction at first. Though he hated to think it, Thorin's open disdain had helped, though only a bit. His initial feelings of interest were able to redirect themselves into a willingness to prove himself, to show the stiff-necked king-in-exile that Bilbo Baggins was a hobbit of strength and resourcefulness, not the soft, dowdy, somewhat weak character that Thorin saw (and that Bilbo, in his worst moments, feared he himself indeed was). Despite all of his setbacks and misadventures, all of his unfamiliarity with travel and his inappropriate preferences (he still remembered Thorin's incredulous disgust at finding out that the hobbit was fond of elves in Rivendell), he slowly managed to show Thorin that he was worthy of consideration. After the Carrock, the king seemed to depend on him more, consider him not only one of the group, but a friend... or more. The looks between them grew longer and heavier, the conversation became more personal (at times verging on inappropriate). Since Bilbo had never had a love affair before, he didn't recognize the danger signs; he had no basis for suspicion as to why he wanted to spend more time with the handsome dwarf, why he thought about him when he wasn't present, why his day had come to revolve around what Thorin might like, might want, might enjoy. He didn't know. And nothing had prepared him for this feeling. Like a childhood disease, heartbreak was easiest when suffered by the young; it came, and one day it passed, and the heart went on, slightly tougher than before. But this... at almost fifty years of age, to first experience his heart shattering into a million razor edged pieces in his chest... this was a torment that he had never dreamed possible. When he was alone in the dungeons of the elves, he despaired, but not like this. When he lost his parents, he grieved, but not like this. A thousand times a day, he thought simply 'I cannot bear this'... but in spite of himself, life went on, and so did the pain.

On the evening of his third day of his self-imposed exile, he came back from scrounging a few bites of food to see a familiar figure perched on the side of the statue closest to the wall. Even in the shadow, the distinctive star-shaped hairstyle made Nori unmistakable for anyone else. The dwarf had positioned himself cleverly, so that Bilbo had to approach his bedroll to see him. By the time he was in view, he was already within ten feet of him, hardly a good space for escape. He briefly contemplated running but he knew that Nori could catch him easily; despite his definite desire not to speak, he couldn't bring himself to use the ring so openly. Sighing, he said "Hello, Nori."

"Master Baggins," came the sardonic response, "you've led me quite a chase. Not many can hide from a dwarf inside a mountain, but I suppose you are, after all, our burglar." A twinkling smile accompanied this, but Bilbo's stomach fell. There was only one reason Nori could be seeking him out, and he had no taste at all for that as a topic of conversation. Nori continued "When I was asked to find you, I thought 'ah, easy as pie' but here we are days later, and me having looked almost everywhere else. I thought at one point you'd gone goblin on me and were living down in the mines, but..." Despite Bilbo's extensive social training, his tolerance for persiflage was at an all-time low point so he broke in.

"I don't want to talk to anyone, I'm afraid. Nothing at all to say. So, terribly sorry to have troubled you, but you can just run along back to... whoever sent you, and tell them that I'm not to be bothered." Bilbo tried to muster up a proper huff, but he was too miserable. He could tell by the look on Nori's face that his misery was apparent, too; the usually sardonic dwarf looked uncharacteristically sympathetic. The slender dwarf pulled out a knife and for one split second, Bilbo was worried that he was about to be bullied into coming along, but instead Nori began cleaning his nails and staring down at his hands while doing so.

"If I may..." Nori began, and Bilbo pursed his lips. No you may not!, he wanted to shout, but the dwarf went on, "it may interest you to know that I didn't come from the king." Bilbo was floored. He was sure that his face showed his confusion, because Nori smiled before saying "No indeed. I came on behalf of the rest of the Company. We've all been taking turns tearing strips off Thorin for days for driving you away, and..."

"I'm sure neither he nor I require anything from any of you on this... this matter!" Bilbo shouted, suddenly furious. "How dare you interfere in something that..." Nori's hands went up to placate him, though his dark eyes flashed in irritation for a moment at being interrupted a second time.

"Look. I'm bad at this sort of relationship talk, though I'm good at finding people. Never seen what all the fuss is about, myself. Nevertheless I seem to be making a hash of this, and I'm sorry for that, but you should know that Thorin didn't mean what it seems you took him to mean. On my own, I'd also say it seems you forgot that when it comes to talking about emotions, he can be a fool. On behalf of everyone in the Company, if you've ever valued our friendship, please... we beg you. Talk to him one more time. If you can't make your peace, we'll never ask again and make every effort to get you home to the Shire in one piece. Just... please talk to him." Nori's face took on a haunted look. "For all our sakes."

"Really, Nori," Bilbo huffed, still irritated. "It's nobody's business, first of all, and I'd thank you all to stay out of it, though it sounds you've all let yourselves into our business and had a nice look round already. Secondly, you're not impressing me with your dramatics." A knife-edged grin was Nori's response, surprising the hobbit a bit.

"Oh, it's not my dramatics, I assure you," he said cryptically. "Just come along with me, and you'll see for yourself." The hobbit was already exhausted, since he felt exhausted most of the time since he came down here. He could have burst into tears at the unfairness of it all. Honestly, he thought sourly, it's bad enough to have my heart thrown in my face, but now everyone else has to have a say in it as well. I've come halfway around the world, and I might as well still be in the Shire! Maybe Mirabelle Proudfoot will come 'round the corner and tell me what she thinks about the situation in a moment, and I shouldn't be the least surprised if she did. Despite his preferences, though, he had seen Nori enough in their travels to know there was only one way this was going to end; even Dwalin could eventually be worn down by the star-haired thief's dogged persistence, and Bilbo didn't consider himself in that league of stubborn. Well, he thought philosophically, I can be broken hearted anywhere, I suppose, and one more encounter with Thorin couldn't possibly make me hurt any more than I do already.

That was a lie and he knew it.

When Bilbo trudged up the stairs with Nori, he cringed at the sight of the hallway. Each step was a memory of the short days before, helping Thorin walk, gazing into each other's eyes at the stairs, holding him up near the door of the healing rooms. His eyes prickled at the sight of the ragged blanket, still hung in the doorway as though reminding him of the few short days, each of which had encompassed such lifetimes of unimaginable misery within itself. Nori lifted the blanket and ducked inside, and Bilbo followed before stopping in shock. The room looked like a whirlwind had passed through it. Oin saw him coming in and said "Mahal be praised" so softly he barely could hear it, but the hobbit knew it was heartfelt by the way the old dwarf seemed to deflate as he said it. He set down the crystal in his hand, the muted clack of stone on stone the only sound in the room other than Thorin's soft rhythmic breathing.

Thorin lay on the rickety bed asleep, looking like he had aged a hundred years in three days. The covers were rucked and piled up around him, thrown askew, and his crutch was set by the bed but showed several dents where it had clearly met some mischief. His hair was filthy and matted, skin grey, and his face was covered in tears and what looked like dust or ash. He looked thinner somehow, though his breathing seemed steadier than it had when he was originally wounded. "Oin, what..." Bilbo looked around the room. Items were flung around on the floor, and now that he was properly in the room, he could see scuff marks on the furniture where it had clearly been toppled at least once and set back up. "What on earth...?" He looked round again and saw Oin hurrying out the door, ducking under the blanket like he was being pursued. Nori grinned another of his cheeky sharp smiles and fled right behind Oin, leaving Bilbo alone with a sleeping, filthy Thorin. Right, he thought. Now what? In spite of himself, his heart went out to Thorin's filthy condition, and instincts built during his time as a nurse forced him to address it. The hobbit got a bowl of cool water and a soft cloth and began gently dabbing the grime off of the king's face, realizing as he did so that it was most likely dust from the armory. After the first swipe, Bilbo was delighted to see that most of the grey color was dust. After only a few touches of the cool, moist rag, Thorin roused, shouting something that sounded truly abusive in Khuzdul, and Bilbo was quite glad he didn't understand the language. One of the king's strong hands grabbed his arm, almost bruising it, then Thorin's eyes snapped open.

"How..." the king's eyes rolled wildly around the room, seeming surprised and still disoriented from sleep. "Am I dreaming, then? So be it." He grabbed Bilbo before the hobbit could respond, pulling him down effortlessly and kissing him, clutching him tight and plundering his mouth thoroughly. At the very first he instinctively thought to fight, but between shock and his own desires, it was hard to do so. In the end, he kissed back, trying to communicate all of his desire and passion without words. After a few moments, Thorin stiffened and pulled away. "I'm not... dreaming. Am I?" Bilbo, thoroughly out of breath and shivering with an emotional reaction that pulled him in every direction at once, just shook his head wordlessly. "Ah." The grey of his skin suddenly suffused with crimson, and he looked away, but the hobbit reached out and turned his face back towards him. Keeping eye contact, Bilbo leaned forward and kissed him again, gently, then drew back.

"Thank you," the hobbit said in a quiet voice. Picking up his rag, he resumed cleaning the smudges from Thorin's face, now flaming a fiery red.

Thorin closed his eyes, seemingly ashamed. "Master Baggins, I..."

The hobbit's lips thinned as he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn patch of filth on the king's temple. "Bilbo."

Thorin sighed. "Bilbo. I'm sorry for... losing control like that. If I were whole, I would ask to court you, but now, I'd rather die than burden you with all this. You shouldn't let my feelings trap you here. You deserve so much more than..." Bilbo's mouth got tighter and tighter, eyes narrowing, and finally he had had enough. The king fell silent, the result of a small hand placed firmly across his lips.

"Thorin Oakenshield, you listen to me, and listen well. I will only tell you this once." Bilbo's voice hadn't raised even slightly, but his face was set and his normally kind hazel eyes were steely. He set the rag down and the bowl of water was placed on the table with a very definite _clink_. "If I hear one more word from you or anyone else about what I should feel, or what I deserve, or anything else implying that I am incapable of knowing my own mind and acting on it, it will go very poorly for the speaker, whoever that speaker might be." He looked down at the king, who sank into his pillow a bit in spite of himself at the fierce expression on the hobbit's face. "I have spent the last three days crying in misery thinking I had no hope of any sort of... well, no hope. Nori dragged me up here against my will, and I came thinking you had no interest in me and that the whole thing had been my imagination, or that at the very least, you were going to turn me out for not being a suitable partner for a king. And that may very well be the case, I'm not. I have no idea what might be involved, and wouldn't know where to start. But I will say this... if you feel strongly enough about me to kiss me like that and then think you're going to turn around and talk me into going somewhere else, that blow to the head you took addled your wits. I would also add," he said with an arch look, "kisses aside, an apology for what you said a few days ago wouldn't go amiss, though if all you want to talk about is some poppycock about not being worthy, you can bloody well keep silent." He became aware he was breathing rather heavily, but his emotions were in such an upheaval he couldn't determine whether he was overjoyed or furious.

Thorin smiled under his hand and he lifted his fingers. "Well, there's me told," the king said. Bilbo sniffed but giggled in spite of himself. Thorin's smile grew serious. "I am sorry that I expressed myself so poorly. I would never say that you didn't know your own mind; of all people I know, you're the least likely to be accused of that! But in truth, I'm no fit partner for someone as wonderful as you. I'm old, I'm a cripple... the only thing I can offer you is riches that don't interest you, I..." The small fingers came back to his lips, stopping his catalog of supposed flaws. Sapphire blue eyes looked anguished, but the lips under the hobbit's fingers obediently stopped moving.

"I'm not going to listen to that sort of rot, I told you already." Bilbo seated himself on the side of the bed, nudging at Thorin with his hip until he slid over a bit to make more room. "You are not old, any more than I am. You will probably still outlive me, based on what you lot said about dwarven lifespans in our travels. But you are not a cripple. You are not even a king." Thorin's eyes were puzzled, staring over at Bilbo, who leaned down and kissed him again, just because he now knew that he could. "You are just Thorin, and that's enough. I've only ever wanted Thorin, the rest of it can go hang. Let me tell you something." He stretched out his fingers and trailed them through the dirty dark hair, tch'ing at its tangled condition. Hazel eyes trapped blue ones, and he took those thick fingers which he had admired even on Thorin's sickbed in his own. Bilbo leaned forward, earnestness apparent in every line of his face. "It's foolish for you to act like I am some great prize. I am just a dowdy, middle-aged hobbit bachelor. I have never been interested in marriage, and not really very interested in women. Or men, for that matter. I saw my friends all courting, having fun, and I was happy for them, but it just... it was never for me. They described a sense of connection, of knowing that someone was the right one for them, that they could make a life with them and have children and I... I couldn't ever imagine sharing my life like that. I certainly never found anyone that I felt the connection they all described." He broke off and twisted his hands together. Thorin's face was anguished but he stayed quiet, letting Bilbo speak. "I thought I would always be alone." The hobbit gave a bitter little laugh. "I gave up, honestly. And I didn't think it was that bad; I thought I was fine, really. If I thought about it at all, it was just to be thankful that I was too old to worry about all that sort of thing." What started as a smile quickly turned to a wince, then a grimace, and Bilbo realized tears were running down his face though he had no intention of crying. Thorin made a guttural sound and wrapped his arms around the hobbit, pulling him down to lie on the bed. "But I found out that was a lie, Thorin, My life was missing something and I didn't even know it. But when I saw you for the first time, I felt... I don't know, I felt something. You were different. And the more time I spent with you, the more I knew that I had finally found someone that I felt that connection with that all my friends described. What I was missing was you. I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else with anyone else."

Thorin turned his fingers, interlacing them into Bilbo's. "You are not 'just' an anything, Bilbo Baggins. You are brave, and fierce, and loyal... much more than someone like me, who treated you so poorly. I don't deserve a heart like yours to be offered to me after what I did to you. You are indeed a great prize; any dwarf alive would kill for such a worthy suitor." Bilbo made a noise, trying to interject, but it was Thorin's turn to place a finger on his lips. "Stop... hear me. I have put this off far too long." The king's face was drawn and haggard at even the thought of the scene at the battlements, where Thorin threatened to throw the hobbit down to the rocks below. "The gold sickness is an explanation for how I was able to act in such a way, but it is no excuse. Even though I was mad, it shames me to think of how I treated you, and doubly so because I knew even then that I... cared for you. I went back in the mountain and for days, all I could see was your face, your fear, and I hated myself with every breath I took." Thorin drew in a shuddering breath and turned to Bilbo, face determined. "I am so very, very sorry, words cannot express how ashamed I am of what I did, and I hope with time you can forgive me... I do not think I will ever forgive myself. When I was struck down during the fighting after killing that white orc filth, I was ready to die." The hobbit made a high-pitched noise of denial, but Thorin's eyes were closed, remembering how it felt to lay so close to death. "I didn't expect to survive... truly, I didn't want to survive. But when I came to in that tent, and you were there, holding my hand and telling me tales of your home... Mahal!" Tears ran out from under his closed lids and Bilbo snuggled closer to him. "Bilbo, like you, I never had time for romance. Dwarves love seldom, and when we do, it is the only love we have for our lives. I thought I was destined to be loveless, and that seemed fitting; I had other tasks to fulfil, my people to tend and a home to reclaim. I had nothing to offer another, and those who presented themselves saw only the prospect of a crown and a title, they had no interest in me. From the moment I saw you in the hallway of your home, you were different. You are still different, but you are so much more than you were... when I met you, you were bright like a fire, but now you shine like the very sun." Thorin pushed himself up against the creaking headboard and took Bilbo's hands in his. "Bilbo Baggins, my body is broken, my kingdom is in ruins, but even so my heart speaks your name... may I court you?"

He smiled up at Thorin from where he lay against the broad chest, the side of his face pressing into the smutched, tatty wreckage of the once-fine brocade coat Thorin had been wearing. "Thorin, you were forgiven before you were ever wounded; now there is nothing to forgive. And I would live with you in a pigsty and eat brambles, so long as you were there. Yes, of course you may court me. I have wanted nothing more for months." The hobbit sniffed deeply and made a face, exaggerating it comically as he stared up at Thorin. "And as your intended, I would advise you to bathe in the near future. I have it on very good authority that cleanliness is important for courting couples." Thorin's deep laughter drew Oin back into the room, grinning in obvious relief when he saw them sprawled on the bed together, though his grin faded at Bilbo's next comment. "Oin, I leave for three days and you leave Thorin filthy and unwashed the whole time? What sort of healer are you anyway?"

=

_Six months later_

As the marriage ceremony began, Bilbo looked across the anvil at Thorin. The king's new clothes were magnificent (as were Bilbo's own... who knew dwarven tailors could make hobbit clothing so quickly?) The past six months had passed in a blur, dwarves pouring into the mountain as soon as Spring arrived, scrubbing, sorting, rebuilding... if Bilbo's head hadn't already been swimming from a romance he never thought he'd get to have, he would have been more astounded. As it was, he floated through the halls on clouds of happiness, a happiness marred only by Thorin's inability to accept his new physical limitations. The king cursed his halting step almost daily, though he no longer felt pain from his foot; there was simply too much damage to the nerves and tendons for it to heal fully, and the terrible infection had done its own damage. Oin said he would never walk without a limp again, but the king had taken to carrying a steel-capped oaken cane which looked elegant but could be used as a weapon of war at the slightest provocation. After an Iron Hills dwarf had been disarmed and almost had his throat crushed within half a minute by the same cane he had made a rude comment about, word had gotten around quickly that the king was in no way discommoded by his condition. Despite the ready acceptance of the dwarves, though, Thorin told Bilbo he felt old and broken... feelings the hobbit thoroughly enjoyed dispelling by regularly proving Thorin young and functional, at least in the bedroom, then making the point afterwards.

They spoke their vows, Thorin in Khuzdul according to custom and Bilbo in Westron so as not to scandalize the more conservative dwarves, and then there was a long two-tone chant in Khuzdul to celebrate, call and response style from the sides of the hall. Bilbo was amazed all over again at how clean the room was, though the absence of flowers at his own wedding continued to bother him. The marriage chant came to an end, and Thorin kissed him to the cheers of the crowd. He knew there was a feast to come, but the part he was waiting for would come after the feast, when they had retired to their room and the door was closed. Just for the sake of mischief, he leaned over to Thorin as they walked between the rows of cheering dwarves. "You're looking pretty young and whole to me... can't wait for you to prove it." The sight of his husband's blush warmed him through the entire feast that followed.


End file.
